Then she looked up with trouble in her eyes.
“Miss Bibby,” she said, “you know just where you turn over and the chords begin, are you sure I didn’t play D flat there, instead of D natural?”
Miss Bibby started guiltily; as silence had settled slowly down over the room her thoughts began to drop nearer and nearer to her elbow.
“I don’t remember, dear,” she said; “didn’t I praise you—didn’t we say you could tell mother that you had it quite correct at last? Yes, I remember quite well.”
Pauline sighed. There was no help for her spiritual difficulty here. That doubtful D flat had made her toss restlessly for half an hour before she slept last night. She was consumed by the desire to write the glorious news to her mother, and even Miss Bibby, exigent Miss Bibby, had said the piece was perfect. But Pauline herself had a lurking, miserable doubt in her mind; she seemed to recollect just one mistake, just one tiresome finger jumping up to a black note, when it should have played a white one with a slur. She stared wretchedly at the written statement [p79] before her. Suppose it were not true—think of writing a lie, an actual lie to mother! But, indeed, if she really knew for certain that she had played D flat she would not dream of writing so. It was the doubt that tormented. She had better not write so certainly—yes, she would add something that would leave the question more open. “Perhaps” was the word, of course,—“perhaps” excused many, many things. She read over the beginning once more, imagining it to be her mother’s eye perusing.
“‘My dearest Mummie and Dad,—I played my Serenade through this morning without one single solitary mistake perhaps.’” Oh, how the wretched word pulled one up, tarnished the brilliant achievement!
“Pauline, you cannot have finished; sit down,” said Miss Bibby.
Pauline shook her head gloomily. “I can’t write yet,” she said; “I think I’ll just go and play it over once more to be certain. That might have been D flat.”
“Oh,” said Miss Bibby excusingly, for the Serenade was long, like the lay of the Last Minstrel. “Mother won’t mind, dear—just say you played it very well, and I was much pleased.”
But Pauline shook her head wretchedly.